


Flesh, Blood and Bone

by DinosaurTheology



Series: Brief, Brilliant Miracles [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Class Differences, Class Issues, Cold, F/M, Josie is fierce, Relationship Discussions, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3810898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurTheology/pseuds/DinosaurTheology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then do not forget what I have said, ser. We live in strange times--the very sky is torn open and bleeding. There are some things that do not mean as much as they once did. They cannot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flesh rips

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Dragon Age but love these characters so much that I just can't stop having fun with them.

"All right, guys, that was amazing. I'm really proud to have fought with each of you. We're really starting to come together, really working like a team should!" Mischa Trevelyan, Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle, member of a proud clan of noble Marchers, Herald of Andraste and leader of the Inquisition grinned, in spite of the grime and blood smeared across his face--some of it his own--and actually clapped his hands. "Corypheus and his Archdemon... thing... won't have a chance against us. When we finally get ahold of him, at least."

Vivienne, Madame de Fer, rolled her eyes. All of this enthusiasm, although perhaps necessary, was just a little bit unseemly, from the lofty position on which she stood. At the very least, had this noisy but undeniably charming puppy been one of her ranking mages at Montsimmard, she might have insinuated as gracefully as possible that he could reign his enthusiasm oh, say, a little (or a lot, if it wasn't too much trouble, dear). He wasn't, though, and speaking out of turn to the chosen of the Maker's very bride seemed a very poor choice indeed for the self-proclaimed leader of the last loyal mages in Thedas. Silence, Vivienne had discovered through a difficult life of trial and error, could speak more eloquently than any number of words.

One problem, however, had been prickling at the back of her formidable mind for several weeks, now, and could be handled, more or less easily. The Warden, Blackwall, slouched a few steps from her. His broad shoulders were bowed, making the prodigious muscles of his chest and back look slumped and brutish. Venatori blood matted his beard and, in spite of his admitted ferocity in battle, some leaked from the rents in the everite Battlemaster's mail he had picked up at Fort Connor and claimed as his spoils from the vicious fight there. 

Vivienne cast a glance sidelong. Trevelyan, busy with congratulating Varric on the efficacy of the new aiming module he'd cooked up for Bianca and Iron Bull on how he'd pressed a Venatori brute overhead and tossed the man into his fellows like a caber, need not concern himself with this situation. It was beneath him, in any event. She had to work on getting the Inquisitor to understand that; no one would respect a leader of Thedas who arbitrated the relatively meaningless comings and goings of his underlings. She rolled her eyes. One did not negotiate with Empress Celene Valmont in the morning and then counsel a stable boy and scullery maid over their faltering dalliance in the afternoon; it was not the road to respect, not proper and not done.

But this must be, one way or another. She put on her most charming smile--not all masks were gilded, feathered affairs, after all, and swept towards the Inquisitor's Champion. "Blackwall, darling, are you quite all right? You seem so lonely."

"Oh? I'm fine." He chuckled. "Not all of us can pass through a fight with nary a hair out of place like you, Madame de Fer."

"It's nothing at all, just a little trick I've picked up."

"Does it have to do with being a Knight-Enchanter?"

"Oh, Maker, no. Do you see the Inquisitor, how he is covered with gore and sweat from his shaggy hair to the scuffed heels of his boots?" He nodded. "That's what most of the members of my order look like after we've been through battle. Our barriers absorb most of the energy from a magical or physical attack but, in general, the crimson rewards of our efforts aren't important enough to warrant attention. Knight-Enchanters are not known for their consideration regarding appearances." She sighed, seeking the right words. They could be so illusive, when silence lost her golden eloquence. "It is appearances that I wish to discuss with you today, serah."

"What do you mean? I did say that not all of us have your 'special skills,' after all, not even Lord Trevelyan... and the beard is non-negotiable." He stroked its sometimes luxurious, currently tangled, black strands. "It's what sets us apart, those who survive the Joining."

"Oh, for the love of the Maker, that's not what I mean!" She drummed her fingers on the ironbark staff she'd received, once upon a time, from Gaspard du Chalons. "It has to do with your inappropriate fascination with the Inquisition's ambassador."

"Inappropriate fascination? What in hell are you on about, woman?"

"I shall disregard the lack of refinement you've shown, just now, and try to make it clear. Lady Josephine, in addition to acting as the Inquisition's liason to the great and powerful in the world at large, is a scion of Antivan nobility as the heir to Antiva City's House Montilyet. You, although certainly a brave and stalwart enough fellow, are... not."

Blackwall raised an eyebrow. "I never claimed to be, did I?"

"No, to your credit. Many men feel like they need to puff themselves up with false acclaim. It's truly sad, like a bald man wearing the fur of some poor, dead creature on his shining pate instead of accepting what nature intended."

"And what did nature intend for me, Madame du Fer?"

"To be very strong, very pliable and very good at hitting things or standing in front of Lord Trevelyan. Both are of exceeding importance."

"Why is that? My family name isn't good enough to talk to Josie?" He used the diminuitive of her name, limited to the Inner Circle and her family, just to spite this woman.

"Not good enough?" Vivienne actually laughed, the sound tinged more by pity than mockery. "Blackwall, my dear, you do not even have a family name that I know. Something can't be good enough or not if it doesn't exist, you know. That's logic."

"I suppose that's a point in my favor, at least. You can't know if I'm up to your standards or not."

"Don't be ridiculous, darling; very few people are up to my standards. What remains important is for each of us to fulfill his or her duty. I must teach Lord Trevelyan to navigate the waters of nobility, Dorian must fill in our gaps of knowledge regarding Tevinter, Sera must... get on everyone's last nerve, I suppose. There's no sin in being what you are, is there?"

"I guess not, no."

"So you, my good Warden, must stop pining over Lady Montilyet like a moonstruck calf and see to your duties as Lord Trevelyan's Champion. They are, I am assuming, trenchant and challenging enough to keep you busy?"

"You see by the state I'm in that must be so."

"Then you can go about your business and let Josephine go about hers without terrifying her."

"Terrifying her?" This bumped against the edges of disbelief. The woman he knew, fierce and proud as the hawk on her family's crest, couldn't even be terrified by the blunderinges of a Great Bear, let alone chatting with a lesser one at the dinner table.

"Yes, yes. You probably don't know this, being so burly and intimidating, but it can be so frightening for a woman to explain that she is being upset by someone's attentions. Not to mention awkward when she is as conscientious and kind as Lady Montilyet."

"And you know all this because she confided in you?"

"Not in so many words, no, but anyone with the slightest refinement could have read it in her face." She placed a sympathetic hand on Blackwall's chest. He moved mountains to avoid flinching. "The poor little thing has the weight of the world on her shoulders, being forced as she is to confusticate with mad nobles from all over Thedas... it's just cruel to pile more on her, don't you think?"

"I... suppose so." Blackwall's mighty shoulders sagged. "I suppose I should thank you for letting me know."

"Oh, that's no problem, dear." She leaned over and let her lips brush gently across his bearded cheek. "I knew you'd understand."


	2. Blood spills

Varric Tethras found, in general, that the corridors between Josephine's office and the War Room a particularly agreeable environment for collecting his thoughts, collating his notes and even composing a chapter or two of Hard in Hightown, Swords and Shields or--just maybe--his brand new erotic thriller, Fifty Vashoth. It was quiet, picked up a nice breeze from the open windows (and, you know, giant cracks in the wall, but nothing was perfect) and wasn't frequented, except in the case of an emergency meeting of the Inquisitor and his advisors, by anyone who would bother him. It also, in a more esoteric way he found terribly poetic, represented the exact opposite of Orzammar's closed, shadowy corridors, lit by bioluminescent fungus and the boiling glow of molten rock.

Today was not one of those days, sadly, that he idle here and work in Andraste blessed peace for an hour or two. Sera and Dorian were clustered by the door to the Ambassador's chamber, ears all but pressed to the polished wood. Ah, well. At least it looked like decent enoguh company. He could have been joined by Solas, off for a good brood, or Cullen wanting to bond over their shared experiences in Kirkwall. It wasn't a great city, Varric had to admit--especially near the end--but it was his home since birth. It wasn't like, he reflected, that he went to Honnleath, lived and worked for a few years, and now spent every spare moment bitching about how terrible the little mountain hamlet could be. So Kirkwall had been the home of psychotic Templars, ravening blood mages and the epicenter for red lyrium growth... every town had problems, right? At least you couldn't call it boring.

It didn't matter, so Varric pushed it from his jumble of thoughts, as tangled as the golden wires growing on his chest, and sidled up to his younger companions. "Ave, altus."

Dorian smiled and raised his hand. "Atrast vala, salroka."

Sera stuck out her tongue. "Ahoy, Chesty McHair. You and Curlystache can fuck right off with the fancy talk, hey?"

Varric laughed. "Ir ableas, dalen. Aneth ara."

"Ugh!" Sera tugged at her hair, and then clapped her hands over her ears. It smushed the points downward by her head, like a wet rabbit, producing an effect adorable and absurd. "For shite's sake, you're being elfy now, too! I can't handle you be elfy and dwarfy all at once!"

"Okay, okay." Varric pulled her hands down, took them in his own, and patted them. "Calm down and tell me what's going on. I promise I won't be elfy--or any more dwarfy than necessary."

"All right, but you better hadn't be or I'll see if I can poke the elf out of you with my arrows. It's awful enough with Solas, it is." She giggled. "So, what we're gathered up out here to do is to hear the show."

"I'm assuming that something is going to happen in Ruffles' office and that you two haven't just gotten into some really, really good aquae lucidius and become intractably fascinated with the grain on her door."

Dorian nodded. "Indeed, my good deshyr." He laid his finger against his nose. "I have it on the best authority that Lady Montilyet is going to have a meeting with Madame de Fer that could leave thunderbolts crackling over the valley for long enough to leave the Avvar doubting that their Mountain Father loves them."

"What for?"

"A particularly enormous, horned little bird told me, as we dined on some delectable, chocolatey contraband from my homeland, that Madame de Fer had a something of a... conversation... with Warden Blackwall over his friendship with Lady Montilyet. Dear Josie is now going to have a conversation with her to straighten the matter out."

"I think I could follow that, but I'm going to have to be careful and make sure I didn't miss anything."

"What he means, if I can dig through all them titles and fancy elowhatshuns, is that Lady Bitchmaster has a problem with Blackie, and Scribbles is gonna fuck her shit right up over it."

Within the office, Vivienne glided across the room like a tongue of dark flame. She alit on the seat of one of Josephine's plush chairs, steepeled her fingers, and lounged against its overstuffed, velvet back. "Josephine, darling, you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, quite." Josephine pursed her lips. "I will not have to ask you to take a seat, I suppose."

"Certainly not, dear. I believe in dispensing with all those silly little conventions, whenever possible, so that we can have a conversation just as two colleagues." Her voice slithered like silk over Emprise du Lion's icy lakes and river. "Now... what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?"

"It has come to my attention, Madame de Fer, that your treatment of our friend and colleague Blackwall, after a recent battle with Venatori rebels, left something to be desired in the realm of civility."

"Colleague? Certainly. Friend?" Vivienne let the word's last letter fry and hang in the air.

"You have not answered my question, Madame."

"I will answer any question you might have, dear, if you will but ask it."

Josephine took a deep breath and refused to let herself be sucked into playing mind games with one of Thedas' recognized masters at them. "Let me speak as plainly as I can, then. Did you inform Warden Blackwall that I no longer wished to pursue friendship with him?"

"What I told the Warden, Ambassador, was that his pining after you was improper and would only lead to discomfort for you and humiliation for him when he figured it out." She smiled. "It is of the utmost importance that we preserve appearances for the nobility of Thedas, as you well know as a trained diplomat, and a wandering warrior of unknown birth--noble of ignoble, we simply cannot know--following you like a lovesick puppy does not cast the Inquisition in the sort of light that we want. It simply will not do."

"I see."

"Beyond that, it is imperative that we maintain all our resources at their peak levels so that their performance will not be impaired at an important moment. It would not do for Blackwall to be consumed with passion for you and find himself unable to throw himself in front of some terrible, charging beast to protect Lord Trevelyan, surely you can see that. The Inquisition, and all of our hopes for tomorrow, might end up in the belly of a gurgut, that way."

"You present a vivid picture, Madame. I must admit this even as I disagree."

Vivienne raised one immaculately plucked eyebrow. "Oh? What is your reasoning, dear Ambassador?"

"I do not consider my conversations with Blackwall to be an embarrassing distraction, for one. Maker's breath, he is a member of the Grey Wardens, a hero!"

"A hero!" She rolled eyes as dark, hard and glittering as agates. "The Wardens are vagabonds who take much and give little, save in the most extreme of circumstances."

Josephine chuckled bitterly. "You must have been well away from Fereldan and the southern Free Marches a decade ago, Enchanter. And now, we face the Blight to end all Blights, one of the seven magisters who stormed the Golden City walking abroad under daylight. If the Wardens are not a needed factor in this conflagration I cannot imagine the situation for them. As Blackwall is their only representative available..." She shrugged.

"Yes, indeed, he is the only one, isn't it?" Vivienne carefully studied one long, slender hand. "The oddness of this has not occurred to you, that this mysterious Calling has left him alone out of all the mighty members of his order?"

Josephine wavered. "It is possible that his will is stronger, that is all."

"Darling, Loghain mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane, is among the Wardens' number. If his will was not strong enough to resist the Calling then no man could hold out any hope."

"He could not resist the temptations of Rendon Howe, Vivienne."

"You make a fair point."

"And all of this is beside that point." Josephine smoothed the front of her rich purple and gold blouse. "Blackwall is a good man, stalwart, bold and kind. Even if he was to feel la splendour des couers perdus for me, which is not a likely situation given we are far too busy to entertain any thoughts of romance in this disaster we call an age, then I would not feel the discomfort at it you seem to attribute to me." She pounded her small, clenched fist on a thick ledger. "By the burned flesh of Andraste, you make him sound like some scoundrel tom-cat slinking under my bedroom window!"

Vivienne smiled. It was true and as kind as she could manage, something Josephine saw even through her anger. "He could be, darling, we just don't know. Warden Blackwall is an unknown quantity that could strike us like a varghest buried in the dust at any moment."

"And you are not?" 

The words were quiet. It took a moment for Josephine to realize that Vivienne had even heard them. "Pardon?"

"We know little more of you than we do of Blackwall, Enchanter. You are a mage, born in Wycombe to Rivaini parents. You are the mistress to a duke and self-proclaimed First Enchanter to a Circle that no longer exists."

Vivienne's eyes narrowed. Josephine drew a deep breath and pushed on before she lost her nerve. This was an experienced knight-enchanter, one of the most powerful in Thedas! Could Cassandra, Cullen or Lysette be able to reach them in time to dampen this formidable woman's magical storm, or would the scullery maids end up scraping little bits of burned Montilyet off the walls and ceiling? No matter. Some things had to be said. "If what you say is true, then I do not know why I should trust your word any more than I do that of Blackwall." 

"Trust me because I have not pretended to being something that I am not."

"Has he?"

"There is a feeling I get, when I look at him. I cannot penetrate his damnable calm and courtesy, nor that ridiculous beard, but..." Vivienne shrugged. "I have just been concerned for you, darling. I see that I needn't have been. You are obviously a grown woman that is well capable of taking care of herself."

"I am, Madame de Fer, and beyond that I am a Montilyet of Antiva City. I am a golden kestrel that flies against the purple northern night. You..." She smiled. "The leader of the loyal mages of Thedas... you wear a paper crown to rule over an empire of dust. The mages here at Skyhold follow Lord Trevelyan and Grand Enchanter Fiona, my lady, not you."

"Indeed. I shall take what you say to heart, Ambassador." She stood. "When the inevitable happens and your ridiculous courtly affection for that oaf, or his for you, ends in tragedy, I will be available to help you in any way I can. For the sheer pleasure, if no other reason, of telling you that I was right and you--for all your pretending to the gravitas a noblewoman should have--truly were just a foolish little girl who plays with dolls."

Josephine laughed. "That is where you are wrong, Madame. They are not dolls--they are collectible antique figurines. Now, I'm sure that you have much to do with the rest of your day, leading all those loyal mages." She did not mentioned, and was glad that Vivienne had not, that she did sometimes talk to them when they seemed lonely, collecting dust in her curio cabinet.

"I can see myself out, darling. Remember that I am only a shout--or frightened scream--away."

Josie slumped back at her desk. That had been... unpleasant, in the same way that Iron Bull's descriptions of wrestling with an alpha wyvern at Crestwood had been. Some things needed to be done, though. The nerve of that woman! Now if only the tender nerves exposed and frayed into rags by her words could be soothed...

On the other side of the door Varric leaned, wide-eyed, against the wall. "Andraste's undergarments... wow. I mean... I'm not really into human women, but I think I'm a little bit turned on now."

Dorian nodded. "I'm not into women at all but I might be in love, myself." 

They glanced expectantly at Sera. She wrinkled her nose. "Wot?"

"How did you feel about that little encounter, Shaggy?"

"Well..." Sera stroked her chin. "Anything that makes Lady Bitchcicles feel a little bit burned is okey-day by me but..." She mimed shivering. "I'm feeling a little bit chilly, myself. I didn't know you could do that with words, instead of arrows, cutting and stabbing and ripping and shite. Corr. Bloody fuggin cold, it was."

"Might just be the wind. We are awfully far up in the mountains."

"Yeah, maybe. But no."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want Vivienne to come across like she at least kind of means the best in these... I mean, Blackwall IS hiding something, and he's got some pretty shady stuff going in his past. Let's put it this way... I doubt the guy would pass a background check, right?


	3. Bone knits

Josephine found her way, with few problems, to the Skyhold stables. They were in an out of the way, little used corner of the fortress and--due to the impracticality of bringing horses so far and high--were at well below capacity. A few champed and pawed in their stalls, breath visible in the cold mountain air, but it seemed to her that Lord Trevelyan had mostly kept the position of horsemaster, here, as a favor to old Dennet's courageous service during the siege of Haven. He had braved Red Templars and dragon fire alike to rescue Minaeve and Adan from an awful fate and telling him that they were too out of way for him to be of service would have seemed cruel beyond reason. Besides, even though most of the Inquisition's cells preferred to keep their own mounts, it was good to have an expert on domestic animals at hand just as Helissma and Minaeve knew about the wild beasts of Thedas.

She peeked around a corner and saw the Warden sweating at his forge, simpler than the edifice that Herritt and Dagna ran beneath the throne room but glowing hot, nonetheless. Sweat ran down his bare, powerful torso in rivulets, around the carpet of dark hair and the scars left by years of combat. She felt her breath catch in her throat, but managed to clear it. The deuced thing was finding anything to say at that point. It had all seemed like silence for so long. "Ser Blackwall... we have missed you at dinner, of late."

"Oh? Who is we?"

"Well, everyone seems to enjoy your company--you are so thoughtful and courteous. But, mostly..." She fiddled with the lace at the throat of her blouse. "Mostly I mean that I miss you. You had the most fascinating tales to tell. I treasured them."

"Come closer or I can't hear you say anything, Ambassador." He waved to her.

"I know, I know."

"Then why don't you do it? I promise you that I won't bite."

She padded through the thick straw on dainty feet in soft, leather shoes--bought, at Leliana's insistence, from Bonny Sims' favorite Val Royeaux outfitter. "It's not that, ser, perish the thought... I am just a little bit uncomfortable around horses. They're so large and, er... fragrant."

"They don't smell nearly as bad as a druffalo, nor a gurn, and aren't aggressive like the latter." He shuddered. "I'm glad that our glorious leader didn't get the idea to bring any of those things up here. I bloody hate them."

"Indeed. I suppose that I am just unused to the presence of horses, just as one who visited my homeland would be shocked at the number and size of gurguts living in the Tellari Swamps, and how close our fisherfolk get to them without undue concern."

"How do you get from place to place, in Antiva?"

"It's a very marshy kingdom and Antiva City itself is built on the harbor itself, with canals cutting between the buildings, and we travel on gondolas." She stroked her chin. "The canals smell terrible, too, like seaweed and rotting fish, but it is a different sort of awful smell."

He laughed. "The awful smell of home, eh?"

"Precisely." She smiled. "You have, as you so often do, stolen the very words from my mouth. That's why it has saddened me so that you've been absent from my company."

He grunted. "You've been without me before, whenever I went with Lord Trevelyan to chase our tails around the back end of Thedas. It's likely we'll be heading out again, before long, to see what the hell's going on the Emerald Graves." He wiped the sweat from his brow. "Nothing like a forest full of great bears to keep you on your toes. I've heard of a particularly big one actually preying on clutches of young wyverns. That's... not comforting, especially since it's the equivalent of a giant bear drunk on unfiltered aquae lucidius."

"No, indeed. That's why I chose to bring this matter to you before you left on this mission." She drew a deep breath. "To have something happen to you while any bad blood lay between us, if you left and did not return and I could have done something to make this problem right... it would kill me."

"Bad blood, Ambassador? Why on earth do you think I hold any grudge against you?" 

"I can't imagine any other reason for your despising my company at mealtimes, ser. If I have done anything to offend you then allow me to assure you that--"

"You haven't offended me." He laid his hammer aside on the workbench. "If anything I was under the impression that my attentions had offended you."

"Madame de Fer, I assume?"

"She led me to believe, the last time we were on a jaunt with Lord Trevelyan, that you found me about as welcome as a varghest in your bedchamber."

"Ah, no." Josephine shook her head. "I believe that there is a frightening, venomous beast at work in this situation, Warden Blackwall, but you are certainly not her."

"That's good to know. I bloody hate varghests."

"I do not care for them, either." She watched the coals' soft glow, how the fire danced under them. "What I do not understand is why you believed her, why you let the woman keep you from us--from me."

"Madame Vivienne made it abundantly clear that one of my station wasn't welcome around you lords and ladies."

Josephine couldn't help laughing. "You are truly the..." She sighed. "I do not know what to say. Lords and ladies?"

"You, Lord Trevelyan, Vivienne, Lady Cassandra..."

"What about the thieving surface deshyr, murderous bard, apostate heretic, giant horned heathen and, more than all the rest, Sera? We are not the sort of band that can rest comfortably within the standard social roles. Among that crew one of the legendary Grey Wardens would be as good as a king!"

"Especially if he's the only one left, as far as anyone can tell."

"Precisely. So you are doubly precious." 

He nigh doubled over laughing. "I don't think anyone has called me precious since I was a toddler."

She blushed. "Er, that is one way of putting it, at least."

"Anything that you say about me, m'lady, I will accept with the greatest of gratitude."

"Then hear me say this." She gripped his thick wrist, hot from the forge's heat, and laid it over her left breast. He could feel her heart beneath her ribs, a running rabbit. She laid her small hand on his broad chest, almost lost it in all the hair. "You are as I am: flesh, blood and bone." It was something that she had heard Sky Watcher say to a young pair of Avvar that he counseled. She did not know precisely what it meant, to them, but it resounded in her like the songs they sang about Queen Asha Campana, all through the swamps and cities of Antiva. 

He smiled. "Flesh, blood and bone. We surely are."

He withdrew his hand; she followed suit. "Then do not forget what I have said, ser. We live in strange times--the very sky is torn open and bleeding. There are some things that do not mean as much as they once did. They cannot." Shards of lighting passed between them, as surely as from an enchanter's fingertips or the Hivernal's gaping maw.

He turned away from her. "You have given me much to think about, Josephine. I will consider it while the Inquisitor, Varric, Cassandra and I travel to the Emerald Graves."

She nodded. "I hope that you do. We will have to have a long conversation about what you figure out when you have returned." Maker willing, she said to herself, it would be a long conversation indeed.


End file.
